


No Animagi, No Polyjuice, No Sparkling Vampires

by Leela



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Community: hd_career_fair, HP: Epilogue Compliant, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-15
Updated: 2010-10-15
Packaged: 2017-10-12 17:10:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leela/pseuds/Leela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stung by betrayal, Harry leaves the Ministry and finds a new life and career in the uncomplicated atmosphere of a North Yorkshire pub.  Uncomplicated, that is, until Draco Malfoy wanders in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Animagi, No Polyjuice, No Sparkling Vampires

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [prompt #309 (second in list)](http://community.livejournal.com/hd_career_fair/2051.html?thread=43267#t43267) in the [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/hd_career_fair/profile)[](http://www.livejournal.com/users/hd_career_fair/)**hd_career_fair**.
> 
> Many thanks to my betas: [](http://www.insanejournal.com/users/the_minx_17/profile)[**the_minx_17**](http://www.insanejournal.com/users/the_minx_17/), [](http://www.insanejournal.com/users/eeyore9990/profile)[**eeyore9990**](http://www.insanejournal.com/users/eeyore9990/), and [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/the_flic/profile)[**the_flic**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/the_flic/). Any remaining mistakes are mine. Also, I tweaked and twisted [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/marguerite_26/profile)[](http://www.livejournal.com/users/marguerite_26/)**marguerite_26** 's three additions just a bit (*grin*). Hopefully, she (and everyone else) will have as much fun with them as I did.

"A Sparkling Vampire." The chink of a Galleon hitting the surface of the bar was lost under the sound of a voice Harry would never forget. _Draco Malfoy in his pub_. Harry could feel his spine straighten, his attention drawn to Draco, even as he continued to pull pints of bitter for the Waite brothers.

"You'll need the Muggle cinema over t'York for one of those," Ralph Deakin responded. "We don't allow that kind around here."

Harry used the mirror behind the bar to peek at Draco and had to bite back a groan. What a bloody wanker. Coming into a place like this on a Friday night in tight black robes with an upswept collar that framed his face, a shirt that shimmered like the sunset on a lake, and all that long blond hair; it was just asking for trouble. Harry was fairly sure no man in the history of Elliston-le-moor had worn anything like it, even in the days when they held Quidditch tournaments on nearby Ellis Moor. Then again, Harry to admit that Draco did look more gorgeous than a man in his forties had any right to look.

Recognising the curl of Draco's upper lip, Harry slid the pint glasses over to Barry Waite and went to divert Draco's attention. "We don't stock sparkleberry schnapps."

"How... unexpected," Draco drawled. "Do you have _any_ civilised drinks?"

"Wine, beer, whisky, cider, mead, and everything you see behind me." Harry waved a hand at the display behind him. Be polite to the customers, he reminded himself, even if they're arrogant arses.

"Belle Chateau?" The tone of Draco's question implied that he didn't expect Harry to stock expensive white wines.

"Any particular year? Most people seem to want the '04, but I find the '02 far superior."

"The '02 would be acceptable." The twitch of a muscle beneath Draco's left eye made Harry smile maliciously.

When Harry went over to the cold cupboard to retrieve an unopened bottle, Ralph joined him at that end of the bar. "You all right with this 'un, Harry? He's a bit full of himself."

When Ralph's eyebrows drew together in concern, Harry quickly reassured him, "I can handle him."

"I'd be happy to handle him," Brigid breathed, patting her coiled plaits and making motions that, had she been alive, would have adjusted her tight-waisted, low-necked dress and apron to better show off her ample bosom, "all over."

Harry snorted with laughter. She batted at his shoulder, and he shivered from the cold of her hand's passage through his body.

Ignoring the ghost barmaid, Ralph muttered, "You'll need to be a mite careful with that one. I remember him and his family from the troubles a few years ago."

"So do I," Harry assured him. "Go on back to your table. I'll be fine. I've known Draco Malfoy a long time."

"Is that the city boy's name?" Ella Qing, Harry's working barmaid, tossed her tray onto the counter behind the bar and examined Draco. "Suits him."

The daughter of a pair of farmers on the other side of Ellis Moor, Ella was a complete misfit in the North Yorkshire village. But everyone loved her. Her chin-length, black hair was streaked with red, matching the colour she'd painted on her nails and lips, and her almond-shaped dark brown eyes were outlined in black. She wore her usual work uniform of black trousers and a t-shirt with a slogan across the front. The ruder, the better was her attitude. That day she had _If the definition of beauty gets any thinner, no one will fit_ emblazoned across her chest, likely in response to the tourist who'd made a gibe about her being 'unpleasingly plump' the night before. Harry had more sense than to say anything to her, though. Last time he'd tried making a supportive comment, she'd told him where he could shove his tea and sympathy. Then, she'd tweaked his cheek and called him sweet.

"Cece Thornton and her gossip brigade want you in the snug, Ella." Harry handed her back the tray. "Cece has declared it a women-only zone, and Brigid's only useful for annoying the guests, not serving them."

Ella smiled. "Circe, I love that old witch. I want to be her when I grow up."

Harry watched her saunter towards the door that lead to the snug, her tray spinning in her wake, before he returned to Draco. Summoning a goblet, he opened the bottle with a flourish of his wand, then poured a small amount of wine in the goblet and pushed it across the bar.

Draco wrapped his long fingers around the goblet, raised it, swirled its contents, and sniffed. A tentative taste led to a deeper one, and to Harry catching his breath when Draco's tongue swept across his lips to catch an errant drop.

Annoying git, Harry thought, and motioned to Brigid to stop watching him and go entertain some of the other customers. She made a face and turned her back on him with a bit of a flounce, but did as he'd asked, floating through the wall into the snug.

"Adequate," Draco finally admitted, placing his glass in front of Harry with a clear indication that he wanted more.

"Why are you here?" Harry asked, as he floated the bottle to the cold cupboard.

"Do I have to have a reason to go out for a drink?"

"In Yorkshire?" Harry was incredulous.

"It's not that far as the Apparition cracks."

"I've got other customers," Harry said, and started to move away.

"Wait."

Crossing his arms over his chest, Harry did just that.

"I wanted to..." Draco licked his lips, sipped his wine, and then squared his shoulders. "I wanted to see you."

"Get out."

"Harry, can't you--"

"Get out." Harry stepped forward and, resting his hands on the bar, leant towards Draco. "Unless you want me to throw you out."

"But you won't do that, will you?" Draco reached out and clasped Harry's wrist. The stroke of his thumb across Harry's pulse point went right to Harry's cock.

Yanking his hand away, feeling as if he'd been burnt, Harry hissed, "Don't you dare. It'll never be long enough. Not after what you said," and stalked away.

"Ella," Harry said, as soon as she walked out of the snug, jerking his thumb in Draco's direction, "he's all yours. Try not to let him stay 'til closing."

For the rest of the night, Harry ignored the end of the bar where Draco had taken up residence.

*

"You going to tell me what that was all about last night?" Ella pulled out a chair, flipped it around, and sat with her arms resting across the laddered back. Her neon green t-shirt announced, _Two fingers, it's all you need_.

"No," Harry said, flipping to the next page in _The Saturday Prophet_. He didn't think ignoring her would work, but it was worth a try.

"He's gorgeous, your Draco Malfoy."

"He's not mine."

"If you say so." Ella reached for a muffin and began making herself a bacon butty. "He's a better tipper than most of the stingy bastards around here. I made more from him last night than I did from the rest of them put together. You should invite him back."

"Ella," Harry said, putting as much warning into his voice as he could manage. He didn't want to think about Draco, never mind talk about him.

"What?" She wrinkled her nose. "When a man who looks that good comes into a bar alone, he needs to find a better class of friends. Even you managed that, eventually."

With a snort of laughter, Harry poured coffee into a mug for her and handed it over. "Thanks, I think."

"Did the Ministry send him?"

"Nah, he wouldn't work there on a bet. I'm not sure he even has a job, for that matter." Harry broke off a piece of egg and bacon pie. "I know he doesn't need one."

"Doesn't mean that the Ministry wouldn't scrape the bottom of the barrel and send him after you."

"Trust me. Draco Malfoy is the last person that anyone who knows me would send to try to persuade me of anything." Harry stared at the piece of pie he was crumbling into bits. "Besides, I'm sure Roger Davies, our new Minister, is just as happy not to have his wife's ex-husband swanning around the Ministry. Especially since I quit rather than allow them to promote me from Head Auror to a position that would have put me in line to become Minister after him."

Ella considered him for a moment, and then granted his attempt to change the subject. "That man practically oozes smarm. I don't know how Ginny stands him."

"I'm sure he has some advantages." Harry shrugged. As soon as she lifted her mug to her lips, he added, "At least on Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday nights."

She choked, spluttering tea over the table. "You're an evil man, Harry Potter."

"I can't be evil. I'm a hero." Harry sniggered.

"Those days," she flicked a finger at his forehead, "are long behind you, love. You're nowt but a bartender now."

Harry flung a hand over his eyes and swooned back in his chair, as dramatically as he could manage. "Oh, how the mighty have fallen."

"You're barmy."

"People have been saying that since I was a kid at Hogwarts."

"Yeah, well, people say all sorts of things. Doesn't mean that any of it's true or even that they meant any of it."

"Doesn't mean that they didn't, either." Good mood suddenly gone, Harry grabbed the rest of his pie and stood up. "And on that note, it's time for me to get ready for opening."

"I'll take care of the snug this morning," Ella told him. "But first I'll get this lot cleaned up before Pete comes back from his break and sees what we've done to his kitchen."

"Thanks, El." Harry pushed through the swing door and into the main room of the pub. A quick _Tempus_ charm showed the time as quarter past eleven, forty-five minutes before opening.

Harry closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The scents of that day's lunch specials were mingling with the smell of wood polish and the ever-present, underlying odour of stale alcohol. No cleaning charms, no amount of hard work, nothing would ever eradicate the centuries of celebration and commiseration that had seeped into the walls and beams of the old tavern.

Not that Harry ever wanted to eradicate them. He loved the way this place smelled and felt. It was his freedom after years of working for others.

The building was all wood and wattle. Polished oak for the bar and ceiling. Age-scarred oak and pine for the tables, chairs, walls, and floor. Dark beams ran overhead, supporting the roof and the dangling candelabras. Each morning, he renewed the spells that maintained the building and protected its inhabitants, making himself and his magic that much more a part of it.

When he'd decided to buy a pub, he'd assumed that he would rename it and put his own stamp on it, but then he'd seen the wooden sign that swung above the door of this building. It bore no name, just a painted hand grasping a very familiar wand. "Elder wood, fifteen inches, with a Thestral hair core," he'd murmured when he first saw the sign. And that was when he'd known this was the pub he'd buy.

Running his hand down the counter, he cast the spell that made the new barrels roll themselves into place below the pumps. He checked the bottles, ensured he had enough clean glasses, and levitated the chairs and tables into their assigned places.

Engrossed in his preparations, Harry was startled when someone thumped on the door. He checked the time. Three minutes after twelve. Dismissing the odd sense of anticipation that filled him, he opened the door to let Ralph, Sam, and the others in.

*

Saturday night Harry was aware of Draco from the second the door opened and he sauntered into the pub. Conversations didn't exactly stop as he passed so much as they diminished, people waiting until the stranger had passed on by before resuming. At least Draco had dressed almost sanely for this area, in dark green dragonhide trousers and white silk shirt, and his hair caught back in a tail. Although leaving his shirt untucked and the last three buttons undone was a bit much. Especially when he moved like that and exposed just that bit of...

Stifling a snarl at his own distraction, Harry turned away from Draco and went back to pouring drinks.

"I'd like a Flaming Dragon."

Harry ignored the request, resisting the impulse to spin around and toss Draco out on his arse -- he could, after all, be professional. Instead, he handed Porter Applewhite his Firewhisky and asked, "How's the missus?"

"She's awful poorly, thank 'ee for askin', what with her lumbago acting up an' all. That potion t'Healer gave 'un might as well be water for all the good it does."

Harry made an encouraging noise and was gratified with a barely comprehensible onslaught of information about Mrs Applewhite's myriad ailments and Healer Kostanyk's continuing inability to cure them. But, like all good things, even Porter's ability to natter on about his wife had to come to an end.

"A Flaming Dragon, Harry." Draco's voice was low, caressing, and it drew Harry's attention to that mouth, those pale grey eyes.

"Don't serve drinks like that," Harry said, anger at Draco's presumptuousness making him abrupt.

"Well," Draco responded, his gaze sweeping Harry's body before moving on to the bottles behind him, "since you have all the ingredients, perhaps you can make an exception?"

"He's very good, you know." Brigid's interruption startled both of them. She popped up almost between them, the bar cutting off her body just below her chest.

"Pardon me?" Shock flitted across Draco's face, leaving behind a raised eyebrow as the only evidence.

"Our Harry's one of the best I've ever seen," she purred, "and I've seen a lot of them come and go over the centuries, believe you me."

"Of that I have no doubt." Draco inclined his head towards her. "Although when he does fail, I can assure you that the results are frequently amusing and occasionally spectacular."

She giggled and batted at him. The resulting shiver and the goosebumps that rose on Draco's neck had Harry smirking in satisfaction. He was opening his mouth, getting ready to tell Draco to go somewhere else if he really wanted a fancy drink when Draco said, "If a Flaming Dragon's beyond your skills, I'll just have a Firewhisky. Ogden's 45, if you have it."

"Fine." With a flick of his wand, Harry Summoned a bottle and tumbler, setting the bottle to pour several fingers of amber liquid and sending the nearly-full glass across the bar towards Draco without touching either of them.

Draco, however, refused to take offence. He lifted the glass and swirled the Firewhisky until the flames curled above the surface. "Slàinte," he murmured, saluting Harry with the glass and swallowed. His pale throat convulsed, his Adam's apple bobbed, and Harry had to yank his gaze away.

Clenching his jaw, Harry gritted out, "When that's gone, you can leave."

He didn't, of course. Like the night before, Draco took up residence at one end of the bar. Harry sent Ella to serve him and absolutely didn't wish that Draco would just explain why he'd suddenly shown back up in Harry's life.

*

Sunday afternoon brought a load of tourists. Chattering a mile a minute in several languages, they overflowed the main room and the snug, filled all of the transfigured tables and benches in the garden and out front. All of them were there to watch the once yearly spelled re-enactment of the 1537 Quidditch tournament between the Banchory Bangers and the Caerphilly Catapults, the one that left three Chasers and one Seeker dead, the remaining players on both teams and more than half the audience hexed -- some of them permanently -- and led to the Ministry of Magic banning the use of wands in Quidditch games the following year.

After more than two decades as an Auror, Harry didn't understand the attraction of such a bloody and vicious game -- regular Quidditch could be bad enough -- though he did appreciate the business. As he'd done the year before, he brought in four local women to serve the customers and another to help Pete in the kitchen. He and Ella manned the bar.

The pub emptied out at one o'clock when the last of the tourists headed up the path to the sloping field where the old Quidditch pitch had been erected. Harry paid his temporary help and sent them home with the food boxes that Pete always put up. Then, he joined Pete and Ella out in the back garden.

"All right, Harry?" Pete was sitting on an oversized wooden bench and had his feet up on a chair. The cook was tall, fat, and completely bald. The steel earrings that rimmed the cartilage of his ears sparkled in the sunlight. He also had the sunniest disposition of anyone Harry had ever met. Until someone tried to order him about in his kitchen. Or, at least, that's what Harry had been told. He'd never seen Pete with any other expression than a grin, nor in anything else but white trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

Ella had transfigured something into a wicker sofa with overstuffed cushions and was sprawled over it. Her head was resting on one arm. She had one leg hiked up over the back and the other bent at the knee. Her t-shirt had a splotch of something directly over the _I'm already picturing you in a Body-Bind_ logo.

"Yeah." Harry collapsed into a cushioned wooden chair with a grateful sigh, levitating a bench close enough to put his feet on. "Thank Merlin that match didn't last very long. I don't think I could manage doing it all over again around tea time."

"Bite your tongue," Ella snapped. "It's bad enough we have to open again in a couple of hours."

"Feel free to close up for the day," Harry said, with a languid wave in the direction of the front door, "as long as you're willing to tell Marcus Fairclough why he can't escape his daughter and son-in-law and have a pint with his friends."

Pete howled with laughter at the look of horror on Ella's face.

"Bloody hell, you don't play fair, do you?" Ella snagged a cheese and pickle sandwich off the plate and peered inside before taking a bite.

"It's good Wensleydale," Pete said, looking offended.

"I believe you," she mumbled through a mouthful. "I just didn't want to get the cheddar by mistake again. I leave that shite for those as likes it." She stuck her tongue out at Harry, who returned the favour.

Sitting in the sunlight, Harry rested his head against the back of his chair. The sound of them eating and talking faded into the background along with the birds and insects as he drifted into a nap. Laughter filled his dream, almost familiar enough to recognise, as he chased an elusive figure through the sky. He'd just about caught up and was almost lying on his broom, reaching out to grab the person, when something thumped into his stomach and owl talons jabbed into his upper thigh.

His shriek was high-pitched and ear-piercing. The dark grey owl merely spread its wings to keep its balance and glared at him, its feathers unruffled.

"Lovely owl," Ella commented.

"Gorgeous," Pete agreed.

Harry harrumphed and gestured for the owl to help itself to whatever was left on the table. Given the eagerness with which the bird hopped away, Harry assumed that was acceptable payment. He fumbled for whatever the bird had dropped on him and squinted at it. The Malfoy crest sneered back.

Throwing the envelope in the air, he grabbed his wand off the table and yelled, " _Incendio_."

The letter exploded in a shower of red and gold sparks, drawing a yelp from Ella and an aggrieved "Oi" from Pete. Harry, however, just watched the parchment unfold, dread uncoiling inside him.

"Oh, Harry." Disappointment and hurt laced Hermione's voice. "I was hoping you wouldn't do that."

"You know me too bloody well," Harry grumbled as he sat up and stared at the parchment that hovered in the air before him.

"This letter will only be delivered to you when the pub is closed. I'd like to assume you're alone," Hermione said, "but there's a reasonable possibility that you aren't. I'll give you a minute to decide how much you trust whoever is with you."

Harry glanced over at Pete and Ella, but they were already packing up and leaving. Before following Pete into the kitchen door, Ella flipped two fingers at the letter. Harry sniggered, even as he cast privacy wards and a silencing spell.

"They're gone, aren't they?" Harry jumped when Hermione spoke again.

"I'm not..." she hesitated and, for the first time, he could hear doubt in her voice. "I'm not angry or upset, Harry. At least not any more. I know that it was hard to stay after catching Ron taking bribes, and impossible to accept the promotion they wanted to give you for it, but it's been more than a year and I... I miss you."

The aching sense of loss that rose up at those last three words took Harry by surprise. He muttered, "Miss you, too."

"I'm--" he could hear her take a deep breath "--still with Lucius."

There was a long pause, as if she was giving him time to react, but all he could do was run his hands through his hair and tug, bewildered as always by that relationship.

"Have you forgiven me for that, yet?" Another pause and then she continued, "Maybe you won't believe me, but there's more to him than the bogeyman of our childhood."

Harry snorted with laughter.

"You're laughing, aren't you?" Hermione's voice brightened. "Anyway, this isn't really about Lucius. There's something I need to tell you, to explain." She cleared her throat. "But not like this. If you're willing, I'll be at the park, in our old spot, tomorrow just before sundown."

Another pause and then a whispered, " _Basio_."

The kiss brushed against Harry's cheek, a wisp of sensation that brought a lump to his throat. When the letter drifted down, he caught it and folded it carefully. Dispersing his wards and cancelling the silencing spell, he headed for the hidden gate in the back corner of the pub garden, which held the portal to his cottage. The letter was clutched in his hand.

*

Sunday night was busy. The regulars started trooping in about five minutes after they reopened and didn't seem to stop. It felt as if everyone on that side of Ellis Moor had decided that Harry's pub was the best place to hide from the tourists. A section of the main room had been set aside for the darts league. A protective barrier shimmered in the air, ensuring that stray darts could only hit other players.

As Ella whirled around, floating three trays of food and drink behind her, a paper airplane flew in from the kitchen. Harry reached out and snagged it out of the air. Four tarts appeared in the centre of the note, after he'd unfolded it.

 _Out of roast beef, prawn special, tikka masala wraps, and cheesecake_ , he read. _Can add gooseberry tarts to the sweet list, if you're willing to share_.

Each flick of Harry's wand drew a white line through the sold-out specials. He paused for a moment, stowed three gooseberry tarts under the bar and began to slowly eat the fourth, savouring every bite, before banishing the message and holstering his wand. The tarts were his.

He was licking a few stray crumbs from the corner of his mouth when a Galleon clunked on the bar. "Amortentia Sour," Draco requested.

"Amor--" Harry snickered. "Who comes up with these names?"

A smile curved Draco's lips. "Probably a Hufflepuff in dire need of a brain transplant."

"Or a Slytherin intent on making bartenders suffer." Harry felt his mouth twitching into a smile, despite his best efforts to keep a straight face and not give Draco any false encouragement. He was tired, he told himself. It had been a long day and last call was still hours away. Giving himself a mental shake, he asked, "Firewhisky or wine?"

After a pause, Draco said, "Firewhisky." He paused again, gave Harry a searching look, and then added, "I could use the warmth tonight."

Harry nodded and Summoned the bottle of Ogden's 45 and a glass. As he poured, Draco's expression changed. The humour was replaced with an expression Harry had seen more than once on a customer's face, and Harry's urge to push Draco far away and out of his pub was replaced with a desire to ask how bad his day had been.

"Potter." Marcus Fairclough banged on the other end of the bar. "You serving any else tonight, or just t'pretty boy?"

"Hold on. I'll be right there," Harry yelled. He turned back to Draco, but the moment had passed and the smirk Harry despised was back on Draco's face. "Busy night," Harry said, apologetically.

"Never mind. I know the drill. I'll see myself out." Draco waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal.

"Drink up first," Harry said. "No sense wasting good whisky." Then, before he could change his mind, he shoved the mostly-empty bottle over towards Draco and placed a gooseberry tart in front of him.

Draco arched an eyebrow.

Smirking, Harry advised him, "Nothing personal," and walked away.

Harry was pulling a pint of Grindle-Dark for Marcus Fairclough when his wards snapped and sizzled. An oval of red flared and rippled around the door before shrinking down until it spun around a familiar beetle. He started to put the glass down on the drip tray, so he could grab his wand, when Marcus spoke up.

"You'll be wanting to do that properly, lad, or I'll be having another one," Marcus warned him, turning sideways so he could watch Harry and the beetle.

"Absolutely, Mr Fairclough," Harry agreed with a smile and a quick glance at Draco, who had tensed up and shifted around to put his back against the wall. Trusting his wards and having experienced Marcus's wrath at a badly pulled pint more than once when he was still learning, he finished up and set the glass down to allow the stout to settle and the thick, foamy white head to form.

While he was doing that, he kept an eye on what was happening by the door. The spinning red orb bulged and expanded as the wards forced Rita Skeeter back into her own form. She hung in the air briefly, the look of shock on her face almost comical, and then she dropped to the ground with a clatter of spiked heels on wood.

Ralph Deakin and Sam Owens jumped out of their usual seats near the door and each grabbed one of her arms.

"No need to resort to violence," Rita Skeeter sneered. She made an abortive attempt to wrench free of her minders that only resulted in setting her cat-eyed spectacles askew. "I simply wanted to have a little word with Mr Malfoy."

Harry peeked out of the corner of his eyes at Draco, who had a hand on his wand holster and seemed to be hidden in shadows that shouldn't exist.

"A little word? Is that what you're calling your lies now?" Sam shook his head. "You're a disgrace, you are!"

"No Animagi. No Polyjuice. No Glamours. No Reporters." Harry placed the pint glass down in front of Marcus and rested his elbows on the counter, drawing Skeeter's attention. "Didn't you read the sign?"

"The public has the right..."

Harry cut her off. "The public has no rights in my pub, and neither do you." He raised his wand. "Get out."

"You heard the man," Ralph said. He shook his head at Harry and started to drag Skeeter out.

Her heels screeched against the plank flooring as she tried to fight him. "Unhand me, you filthy farmer."

"A little dirt ne'er hurt anyone, lass." When they reached the door, Ralph put a large, calloused hand in the centre of her back and thrust. "And tha'll not come back any time soon, if tha knows what's good for you."

The room settled into silence for a brief moment, then the sound of clapping came from Draco's end of the bar. He stood and raised his glass to Ralph and Sam, who nodded in acknowledgment. "Drinks on me," Draco announced. Then, he turned to Harry and suggested, "You should fix those wards."

Dropping a velvet bag filled with Galleons on the bar, Draco gave Harry a short, sharp bow of his head, then spun on his heel and marched out. The crack of his Apparition could be heard before the door closed behind him.

Harry stared at the door for a moment, wondering if his rapid escape had anything to do with Skeeter's appearance, and then raised his wand. After making the necessary adjustments to his wards, he relaxed and glanced around the room. Ralph and Sam had returned to their table and their game of Wizarding checkers, Marcus had rejoined his wife and their friends over in the corner, and everyone else had gone back to their own conversations.

Business as usual, he thought, and tried not to dwell on the empty stool at the end of the bar for the rest of the night.

*

Monday was Harry's day off. He'd spent almost every Monday in June, July, and August with his kids, but it was September. Al and Lily were back at Hogwarts, Al for his final year. Jamie was in Australia, practising with the Woollongong Warriors who'd signed him on as a backup Keeper. Harry kept finding himself at sixes and sevens, trying to remember what he'd done on Mondays before the summer instead of fretting over whether or not he was going to meet Hermione.

After an hour or so of banging around his rarely used kitchen, Harry wandered out to the owlery where he maintained the centuries-old pub tradition of keeping owls for the village's Wizarding community to use. His owl, Horntail, was drowsing on a corner perch, but flew forward when Harry called his name.

"Just a quick trip," Harry assured Horntail, stroking the tufted black feathers around the great horned owl's ears. "You don't need to wait for a response. Luna will either join me for a ramble on the moors or she won't."

After watching Horntail fly away, he returned to his cottage and changed into old jeans and one of Molly's jumpers, packed up a knapsack, and pulled on his hiking boots and a hat. A few minutes later, he started off.

He was clambering over the old wooden stile that led to Ellis Moor proper when a crack announced Luna's arrival. She was wearing a short, pink cotton dress over khaki trousers. Stars and moons spun around the hem of her grey cardigan and the band on her oversized, floppy hat.

"It's not so bad, Harry. You'll see," she said by way of greeting, hopping on one foot until she reached the stile. Stepping up, she gave him a peck on the cheek and beamed at him.

"Not on a day like today," he agreed, jumping off the other side.

As they walked, they talked. She told stories about managing both _The Quibbler_ and her increasingly eccentric father. "He's decided that alligators are real. Can you imagine?" she asked.

Chuckling, Harry said, "Yeah, I can, actually. I saw a couple in a Muggle zoo once."

"Muggles." She shook her head, sending her plait bouncing "They'll believe anything, you know."

He laughed, deep and full, and felt a weight lifting from him.

They ate lunch on a sun-warmed flat rock that hung over the valley, and after that, they didn't talk much. It was almost four o'clock when they wound down the last of the path into Maunby Thorpe at the end of the trail.

Something in the line of Luna's back as she preceded him into the village set off every one of Harry's warning bells. As they passed the old church, he stepped through the gate and into the deserted cemetery. Taking cover in a shady corner, hidden by a tree and the wall, he retrieved his wand and started to step into a turn.

" _Expelliarmus_."

His wand flew from his hand and the spell discharge thrust him back against the wall. He snarled, "Luna!"

"We need to talk." Her voice was as gentle as the sympathy in her eyes.

"There's nothing to talk about." He yanked off his hat and dragged a hand through his sweaty hair, blinking hard.

"Lie to yourself if you must, but not to me."

Leaves rustled in the wind as she picked her way over to him, detouring around the marked graves and some raised and sunken areas that bore no markers. She stopped within touching distance to cast a dense cushioning spell. Without waiting for him, she sat down and crossed her legs in a full lotus position.

He stood for a minute, maybe five, until the weight of her gaze drew him down and persuaded him to sit across from her.

Finally, when it was clear that she wasn't going to speak first, he muttered, "I don't want to talk about the sodding arse."

"Hermione misses you," Luna said. Not really a non-sequitur, as he well knew.

A familiar guilt rose up and swamped him. He bent forward, hiding his head in his hands.

"The Nargles can't help you this time."

Against Harry's will, the edges of his mouth curved up. Somehow Luna always knew the right thing to say to him. "Do the Nargles have any advice?" he asked.

"Talk to her, admit that you didn't know Ron was using you." Luna touched his cheek and Harry found himself looking at her. "Let her know that you want her to be happy."

"With Lucius bloody Malfoy?" Harry's nostrils flared. His fists clenched and unclenched. "He's almost as bad as his son."

"Oh, Harry."

The empathy in her voice was too much. He snatched his wand from her grasp and pushed to his feet, stumbling over a root as he Apparated home.

Luna didn't follow him, for which he was grateful. After a quick, viciously hot shower, Harry poured himself a drink and lay back on his sofa.

He woke up hungry and groggy, only just managing not to spill his drink all over himself when he sat up. Even worse, the ice had melted in his whisky, watering it down and rendering it undrinkable before he'd had so much as a sip.

He walked into the kitchen, poured his drink down the sink, and wandered over to the fridge. A glance at the magiList that Ginny had given him last birthday made him groan and remember that he'd stripped his kitchen of just about everything edible to create his picnic lunch.

Annoyed by the growling of his stomach, he wrenched open the fridge door. Only to slam it closed again when the contents proved to be nothing he wanted to eat. In fact, he'd been actively avoiding most of it, like the granola Ella had given him last month. Or had that been the month before? With a sigh, Harry pulled his wand, reopened the door, and banished the whole lot. He'd just have to pay the premium to owl his shopping list tomorrow morning and have it delivered.

Snagging his leather jacket off the hook by the front door, Harry left the cottage.

*

"He's back," Brigid announced as soon as Harry slipped into the pub kitchen.

"Who's back?" Harry stole a slice of ham from a plate on one of the counters.

"Oi." Pete smacked at Harry's hand with a spatula. "Just take the whole plate, why don't you?"

"I will, thanks." Harry grinned at Pete and took the plate to the table. He Summoned a knife and fork, as he walked, snatching them out of the air before they impaled him.

Grumbling about ungrateful employers, Pete reached over his head for a clean plate from the stack on the shelf.

Brigid popped up from under the table, barely six inches from Harry's plate. Tossing her head and arching her back, she said, "Your Draco, that's who's back."

"He's not mine," Harry snapped, swallowing down the urge to stomp out to the main room and toss Draco Malfoy out on his pure-blooded arse. Or maybe just hex him until... fuck! Harry dropped his cutlery on his plate and pushed his chair away from the table, balancing it on two legs and rocking. Did he even know what he wanted any more?

An ice-cold lick on Harry's cheek had him grabbing for the table edge so he didn't topple over. The front legs of his chair dropped to the floor with a thud as Brigid stuck out her tongue at him and floated away.

"I'll have you exorcised," Harry called after her, but that just had her cackling with laughter.

"Might as well give up," Pete advised him. "No one's ever won that battle."

"Some days, I don't even wonder why she's haunting this place." Reaching for a bread roll, Harry buttered it lavishly and started eating. When he was done, he dropped the plate and cutlery into the sink for the automatic cleaning spells to take care of them, picked up the jacket he'd slung over a chair, and started for the back door.

At least, he intended to leave by the back door. Instead, he found himself drawn to the door that separated the kitchen from the bar. A tap of his wand on the right spot activated the one-way mirror charm. Resting his shoulder against the wall, Harry watched.

Draco was sprawled on the same stool he'd taken up on the other nights, his back against the wall. One of his green silk-clad forearms rested on the bar, and he trailed a finger around the lip of his wine glass. The defensive sneer on his face made Harry want to stride out there and wipe it off. Or... there was no _or_ , he told himself, cutting off that thought before it went any further.

Besides, it was his day off, and he never went into the pub on his day off. Exceptions were made for birthday, anniversary and other important day parties, never for annoying prats and ex-lovers.

 _Oh fuck_ , make that one particular annoying prat and ex-lover who was talking to Brigid.

Harry tapped another knot in the wood panelling, put the installable ear into his own ear, and directed the listening charm.

"He's watching you," Brigid said, primping her coiled plaits.

Draco's sneer morphed into a scowl.

"That's not a good look on you. Smiles are so much more attractive. Bees and honey, you know." Brigid patted Draco's cheek, and he flinched, hitting his head on the wall.

The thunk brought a grin to Harry's face, but Draco's thoughtful expression wiped it away. Even more worrisome to Harry was seeing Draco lean forwards and whisper in Brigid's ear. He had a feeling that whatever Draco was saying didn't bode well.

"Over there." Brigid pointed at the chalkboard that was the bar side of the one-way mirror charm.

This time Draco did smile, as he stared directly at the chalkboard. Not quite into Harry's eyes, but close enough.

Draco drained his wine glass. The slow swipe of his tongue over his lips, as he licked away a couple of wine drops, was mesmerising.

Harry found himself licking his own lips, unable to take his eyes off Draco. He reached for the installable ear, not sure what he was going to do, when Draco slammed his glass down on the bar.

" _Coward_ ," Draco mouthed in Harry's direction, flipping two fingers at him. Then, before Harry could move, Draco's expression became a protective mask, ice-cold and arrogant. He slung his coat over one shoulder, spun on his heel, and stalked out of the pub.

Slumping against the wall, Harry cancelled the one-way mirror charm. The installable ear pulled out of his ear and retracted into its slot. Relief, anger, the feeling of having fucked up, all coursed through him.

He jumped as filled plates flew past, bouncing to avoid his head, and landed in the pass-through for Ella to pick up.

"You'll get out of my way," Pete growled, "or I'll withdraw your welcome in my kitchen."

"I'm not a vampire," Harry objected, "and it's my pub."

Pete brandished a large wooden spoon at him, and Harry threw up his hands. "Fine," he said. "I've got to meet someone anyway."

"As long as it's not in my kitchen."

Grasping his wand, Harry murmured the pass-phrase that allowed him to Apparate through his wards, stepped into the turn, and let the magic take him away.

*

The Apparition point at the Albus Dumbledore Memorial Park was empty when Harry arrived. The sounds of children laughing, dogs barking, and the occasional adult yelling came from the direction of the playground. He set off in the opposite direction.

A few minutes later, he stepped into the glade at the centre of the park. Multi-coloured spell-light swarmed around the black obelisk, highlighting one name and then another and another in a constant litany of those wizards and witches who died on both sides of the conflicts with Tom Riddle. The grey walls that winged out from either side listed the names of the Muggle dead. There was no spell-light for them, merely visibility in sunlight or a _Lumos_ cast by a visiting witch or wizard.

Harry pulled on his jacket, leaving it unfastened, and sat on one of the benches that faced the obelisk. Unable to look at the names, not wanting to remember, he bent forwards, resting his forearms on his knees, and stared at his hands.

"We don't have to stay here if you don't want to," Hermione said, her voice soft.

She stood in front of him, wrapped in a dark, heavy cloak. Her hair was long, hanging loose and wild. A diamond flashed on the ring finger of her left hand. A vertical line creased her forehead, between her eyebrows, and new lines marked the skin around her eyes. Laugh lines, he realised, and smiled.

"You're happy," he said.

"I am." She smiled back at him and held out her hand.

Pushing to his feet, he took her hand and found himself in her arms. "I'm sorry I didn't..."

"It wasn't your fault," Hermione said in the silence that followed. "Ron's got no one to blame but himself."

"But if I'd--"

"No." She shook her head. "He gambled away our life savings. He took those bribes and compromised your investigation into the group that tried to fix the Quidditch World Cup. Don't make excuses for him."

Something eased inside him as he stood there, holding her, being held by her.

"I take it you will be safe?" The intrusion of Lucius Malfoy's question caused them to release each other, step back a little, still holding hands.

"Hermione's always safe with me," Harry said.

The brief tightening of Hermione's grip derailed Harry's train of thought. She smiled at him. "Of course, I am."

Somehow, in that way she always had of getting Harry -- and apparently Lucius -- to do what she wanted, they ended up walking together. Hermione's left hand was in the crook of Lucius's right arm, and her right hand held on to Harry's left. When they reached the outskirts of the true memorial, the private one that the Order had set up for Dumbledore, Snape, Remus, Tonks, and the other Order members who had died, Harry relinquished her hand and turned to face them. He tilted his head, unable to ask the question.

"Please," Hermione replied.

So, he lifted his wand and began the incantation to add Lucius Malfoy to the wards. It was more complex than usual, because of the remnants of the Dark Mark. Although the tattoo had faded, the curse would remain in Lucius's body and magic for the rest of his life. When he was done, Harry inscribed an arc in the wards and walked through it.

Stone animals filled the clearing: a phoenix, a wolf, a grim, a stag, a doe, a bat, and more. Stone paths wound amongst them.

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Harry stayed on the edge. Lucius and Hermione paced slowly around. They stopped longest in front of the bat, heads together. Her arm was around his waist, and his arm holding her close.

They'd been friends, Lucius Malfoy and Severus Snape; Harry remembered that from the trials. He'd always wanted to ask what it was like to discover that one of your long-time friends was a spy for the other side and had betrayed you time and again. But even Harry had more couth than that, no matter what some people claimed.

"Thank you."

Harry looked up to see Lucius holding out his hand. With an odd feeling that he couldn't, didn't want to identify, Harry reached out and shook his hand. The agreement to use each other's first name felt almost anti-climactic after that.

In the open space, Hermione had transfigured something into an armchair and a sofa. Harry sat in the chair. As he waited, Hermione gathered her cloak and started picking at the hem. Lucius's thumb rubbed back and forth across the top of his cane.

Finally, Lucius spoke. "My former wife, Narcissa... she had reasons to not wish to see her son with a half-blood." He glanced over at the bat statue and then returned his gaze to Harry. "She knew she was dying. That it would be long and slow. And she wanted to hold a grandchild of her blood before she died."

"There was no engagement," Hermione said. "The dinner I told you about. She staged it, bribed the restaurant owner to sit Ron and I at the next table."

"No," Harry whispered, shaking his head, gripping the arms of his chair. "No. No. No. _No_!"

Hermione slid across the space between them and knelt before him. "I'm so sorry, Harry. If I'd even suspected..."

Pressing his palms against his eyes, as if that would hold in the ache that filled him, Harry asked, "How?"

"We've been discussing our pasts, ensuring that we begin married life with as few misunderstandings as possible," Lucius said. "I believed that you'd abandoned my son until Hermione explained what she'd heard that afternoon."

"I loved Ginny," Harry said to Hermione, knowing she'd understand, even though he couldn't complete the thought, couldn't say the words that would link his marriage to his break-up with Draco.

"I know." She tugged his hands down, away from his eyes, and stroked a cool finger across his brow and down his cheek. "This has nothing to do with her or with your children."

"The things I said to him."

"Were no worse than the things he said to you."

"My kids. I can't imagine life without them, but... oh god."

"Nor I without my grandson," Lucius said. "However, that does not mean you cannot--"

"Draco's married," Harry interrupted.

"He's getting divorced." Lucius tapped his cane on the ground once in emphasis. "With my blessing."

Images of Draco in his pub flitted through Harry's mind and he had to know. "When?"

"Shortly after we explained what had happened," Hermione said. "A little over a week ago."

 _Which explained Skeeter_ , Harry thought, and he wondered whether she'd already 'interviewed' Draco's wife.

Hermione reached out and distracted him. Their hug was awkward, requiring Harry to slide forward and bend down and Hermione to balance on her knees and reach up. After a moment, Harry turned his head and whispered in her ear, "Malfoy makes you happy?"

The feeling of her lips curving into a smile against his cheek would have been enough without her saying, "Happier than I've been in a long time."

Tightening their embrace, he said, "Good."

"Now it's your turn." Her voice was fierce with determination.

Harry helped her rise, then stood up and watched her return to Lucius. They paused, just before passing through the wards.

Lucius turned around and looked directly into Harry's eyes. "Astoria will be expensive, as is only appropriate. I trust you will make the cost worthwhile." Before Harry could reply, Lucius smiled -- a feral curve of the lips that reminded Harry of Draco. "And, _Harry_ , do not remain a stranger. Whatever happens between you and my son, you will always be welcome in our home."

When they left, Harry sealed the wards and set them for privacy. Beyond words and thought, almost beyond feeling, he sat on the ground in front of the entwined stag and doe, rested his back against the grim, and closed his eyes.

*

The rest of the week was a waste of bloody time. Draco didn't return to the pub. Stuart, Harry's part-time bartender, came down with kneazle flu, and Harry couldn't get five minutes to breathe, never mind think about what to do.

And, he told himself, there was absolutely nothing wrong with wanting his mornings to himself. It wasn't just procrastination. After all, Draco probably had a job and wouldn't appreciate being approached in front of his co-workers.

By Saturday night, those excuses were wearing thin, and Harry was starting to feel like hexing anyone who asked if he had any more friends interested in buying them drinks. Bloody gannets, the greedy lot of them. And then there was Ella and her incessant complaints about tight-fisted customers and how she'd need a raise to make up for the loss of Draco's tips.

On Sunday morning, some bloody idiot hammering on his front door woke Harry up. He might have been able to sleep through it, if he hadn't passed out on the sofa the night before.

"Fuck off," he snarled.

After an all too brief but glorious pause, the arsehole started banging louder.

"All right. All right." Harry pushed himself up to a sitting position, wincing and pressing on his temples when pain lanced through his head. By the time he'd got to his feet, he had a splitting headache, a churning stomach, and a mouth that tasted as if something small and furry had died in it.

He picked up his wand from the coffee table and staggered to the front door. A press of his hand to the correct spot on the wood activated the viewer charm. Ella was on the other side. Her t-shirt was bright yellow and had _If it weren't for the gutter, your mind would be homeless_ across the front in black lettering. She raised her left fist, and he opened the door before she could pound on it again.

"What is it with you and bad-tempered owls?" She threw a phial of Hangover Relief potion at him and then waved her right hand in his face, displaying a healing gash across her palm.

"Owls?" Harry caught the phial and downed the potion, sighing with relief as his headache receded. Tossing the empty phial at the bin, he yawned and scrubbed a hand across his bristly jaw. A loud hoot had him turning his head just in time to avoid being batted in the mouth by a large grey and black wing.

The owl landed on the back of Harry's sofa, digging in its talons hard enough to tear the fabric.

"Bastard let me get close enough to see that the letter's for you and then attacked when I tried to remove it." Ella prowled through into the open kitchen. "Where's the coffee?"

"Not made yet." Harry shrugged. "If you're in a hurry, you might as well go back to Pete."

She returned to the living room, apple in hand, and sniffed in disdain. "Might as well at that. A woman could starve around here."

Waving her off, Harry said, "Go on, then. Just make sure there's some left for me."

As soon as the door closed behind her, Harry approached the owl. "I'm Harry," he said, "and I think that's for me."

The owl cocked its head and studied him before thrusting its leg at Harry. When he'd freed the letter, Harry went over to open the door for it. "Treats are in the owlery."

It squawked with indignation and whacked him with a wing on the way out.

Hoping that wasn't a sign for the way his day was going to go, Harry shut the door behind the owl. He put his wand back down on the coffee table and collapsed onto the sofa. The letter was addressed in Hermione's handwriting. A vague memory of sending Horntail off with a message to her made his stomach churn again.

Draco's address. Writing to Hermione had committed him to doing something. Sooner rather than later, since she wasn't known for her patience. Just the thought had him feeling shaky.

The unopened letter still in his hands, Harry rested his head against the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. He needed to shower and find food and coffee -- coffee, especially -- and then get someone to cover for him.

Because, more than anything else, no matter how much he didn't want to, he needed to talk to Draco.

*

The address in Hermione's letter was a Georgian townhouse in an old Wizarding enclave filled with similar houses in central London. Five stories tall, its small front garden was protected by ornate iron railings. Lights shone behind the curtains of a front room on the first floor and another room at the very top.

Harry stood across the street, feet slightly apart, hands clasped behind his back. When lights flickered on in the smaller windows that rose above the door, Harry finally moved. He placed his hand on the ward box and the gate clicked open.

By the time Harry reached the top of the steps, a house-elf was standing in the doorway. It wore a crisply starched white toga, clasped at the shoulder with a silver dragon pin. A frill of white hair decorated its skull between the ears.

The house-elf gestured at Harry to come in and took his leather jacket, hanging it on a coat rack near the door.

"Master Draco is waiting. You will be coming with Benby," the house-elf said and, without waiting, started up the stairs.

As soon as Harry stepped off the rug and onto the polished wood floor, the front door closed behind him. A glance back showed that his jacket had disappeared to wherever the house-elf stowed the coats of guests. With a sigh, he followed Benby upstairs.

The top floor had been opened out into a single room. The two long walls were covered with floor-to-ceiling bookcases and scroll holders. An elaborate screen painted with ever-moving dragons, snakes, lions, phoenixes, and vines split the room into two. The back half of the room was dark, lit only by the moon and stars. Harry caught a glimpse of a colour-spattered wooden floor and an easel as he was led past the screen to the front of the room.

There were floor-to-ceiling windows, a large black leather sofa, a couple of comfortable leather chairs, a coffee table, and Draco.

Draco sat in a window seat with one foot on the floor and the other on the seat in front of him. One arm was draped over his bent knee, a glass of red wine in his hand. Another glass sat on the coffee table next to a crystal decanter of wine.

When Benby popped out, Draco turned his head and met Harry's eyes. Harry didn't know what he'd expected, perhaps for Draco to look as exhausted as Harry felt, but all Harry could think was that Draco looked good. Better than good, if Harry were being honest, in a blue cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, jeans, and bare feet. His long hair was caught back in a loose ponytail.

Harry was glad that he'd decided on jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt, rather than the trousers, silk shirt, and robes that he'd first picked out. Even so, he felt horribly awkward. All of the ideas that he'd had, the words he'd practised, evaporated under Draco's intense stare. Not knowing what else to do, he removed his wand from its holster with a flourish and placed it on the table. Then, he gestured at the wine and asked, "May I?"

Giving him a short, crisp nod, Draco waited until Harry had poured his drink before saying, "Drink up and get out."

A grin spread over Harry's face, and he lifted his wine in a toast. "Just like you did."

With a snort of amusement, Draco raised his glass to Harry and then took a long swallow.

"I..." Harry took a deep breath and tried again. "I talked to your father and Hermione last night."

"So I hear."

"I'm sorry," Harry blurted out.

"I'm sure you are."

The only indication that Draco was affected by Harry's apology was his sudden preoccupation with the view on the other side of the window. Except he couldn't see anything but a reflection of the room, Harry realised.

Placing his glass on the table, Harry walked over to stand in front of Draco. "If I'd known--"

"You could have trusted me." With a snarl of rage, Draco hurled his glass to one side, shattering it on the wooden floor and splattering red wine.

"You could have told me the truth."

"I told you I wouldn't marry her."

"You _were_ engaged to her. Your mother--" Harry shook his head, unable to finish the sentence.

"You believed Hermione and the Weasel over me." Draco raked a hand through his hair, disarranging it. "You _chose them_ over me."

"No," Harry insisted. "I didn't. I went to the manor, the next day, but you weren't there. Your mother said you'd gone to give Astoria the Malfoy engagement ring. She said you'd set a date. That loving me wasn't enough. That I wasn't enough."

When Draco didn't respond, Harry grabbed Draco's shoulder and tried to force him to turn around. But Draco resisted.

It was the same fucking thing all over again, Harry thought. Draco holding him to an impossible standard and refusing to explain anything.

Harry shoved at Draco and backed away. "You know what? Do whatever the hell you want, all right? Believe me or don't. Accept my apology or don't. Because I can't change a damn thing."

"Fuck you, Harry. Just fuck you."

"You should be so lucky." Harry waited for a response. But Draco just sat there staring out at a world he couldn't see. Harry couldn't even catch Draco's eyes in the reflected room. "Never mind," he finally said. "I'll see myself out."

He'd only gone about ten steps when Draco came up behind him and caught his hand. They stood like that, unmoving, silent.

Draco spoke so quietly that Harry had to strain to hear him. There were lengthy pauses between every sentence, sometimes between words, but Harry remained silent. He was almost holding his breath, biting his lower lip, not wanting to interrupt in case Draco stopped talking to him.

"I had planned to return the Malfoy engagement ring to the vault that day. I went by your flat, but you weren't there. Weasley told me you'd had enough, that you'd gone away. Because of me. After what you'd... we'd said, I had no reason to disbelieve him. All things considered."

 _Bloody Ron_ , Harry thought. Then, when it was clear that Draco was done, he said, "We'd had a fight, Ron and me, that morning. He said that if I didn't believe him and Hermione, I should ask your mother."

"Manipulated by a Weasley. How shall I ever live it down?"

A puff of laughter escaped from Harry and he found himself smiling. "Git."

"You didn't expect me to outgrow that, did you?"

"Hardly." Harry had to turn around, had to see if the expression on Draco's face matched the smile in his voice. With his free hand, Harry reached up and touched the ironic curve of that mouth, ran his thumb over that bottom lip. "We'd have to start all over again," he said. "I'm not that twenty-year-old boy any longer."

A shudder ran through Draco's body. "Nor am I."

Then they kissed. The soft and gentle brush of their mouths deepened into an open-mouthed stroking of tongues, nibbling and sucking of lips. Harry's hands slid around Draco's neck and up into his hair. The silver beaded leather tie fell to the floor with a clatter.

Draco's lips curved into a smile, even as they continued kissing, and he slid his hands into the back pockets of Harry's jeans and pulled him close.

Their cocks touched, through jeans and pants, and Harry hissed at the jolt of need and want. His hips ground against Draco, who staggered, almost overbalancing. In trying to catch him, Harry trod on Draco's toes -- dragonhide boot on bare foot -- and Draco bit Harry's lip.

"Ow," Harry moaned at the same time Draco muttered, "Fuck" and hopped.

"Sorry," Harry said, and Draco took Harry's weight as he toed off his boots, kicking them off to the side and out of their way. Wriggling his toes in sheer relief, Harry grinned at Draco and kissed him again. The slide of their tongues, the taste of the wine, the sharp edge of Draco's teeth, everything sent a twitch through Harry's cock.

Pulling back, Draco asked, "Couch?"

Harry nodded. They kissed again, and Harry allowed Draco to guide them sideways to the sofa. They bashed into the coffee table twice, only once on a corner, which was better than Harry would have managed.

Instead of falling into a tangle on the sofa as they would have done at twenty, they eased down, still managing to keep touching each other and lay on their sides, facing each other. Harry was pressed against the cushions. Draco's weight was a welcome pressure on his thighs, hips, chest, and cock.

They kissed. Harry's right arm was trapped under Draco's left shoulder. Draco's left arm was beneath Harry's side. The cushions were soft enough that neither was painful.

Slipping his free hand below Draco's shirt, Harry touched the skin of his lower back. Soft skin, barely noticeable hair, and muscles, Harry didn't feel as if he was relearning Draco's body, so much as discovering it for the first time. He pressed down and canted his hips, lining up their cocks.

"Harry." Draco's lips slid down Harry's jaw line. He sucked on Harry's neck, his Adam's apple, around his ear.

Harry ran his hand along the waistband of Draco's jeans, undid the buttons. At the touch of Harry's denim-encased cock against Draco's in his silk boxers, Draco nipped Harry's ear lobe, squeezed his arse, causing Harry to buck into him, and murmured, "Now yours."

A zipper had never seemed so complicated as the one on Harry's jeans. He fumbled with the pull. The teeth caught on his flannel boxers. Twice. But finally it was open, his jeans shoved down his thighs, and they pushed together, rubbed against each other.

An ache opened at the back of Harry's throat. Need. Want. He moved his free hand, squeezed Draco's arse, poking the puckered skin of his hole with his little finger, and Draco's hips thrust, his skin shivered.

Draco lifted his leg, hooked it over Harry's thigh, and dragged them even closer. So close that they could only rock, moving faster and faster, their underpants creating a damp, dragging slide over the heads of their cocks. And kiss, open-mouthed, sloppy, desperate, needy kisses.

"Need," Harry moaned into Draco's mouth. "God. Please."

And then Draco's hand went down the back of Harry's pants. A thin finger pressed against Harry's hole, not quite going in, and everything in Harry narrowed down to his cock. His bollocks drew up tight, aching, and he shuddered, spurting his orgasm. As his cock quivered, over-stimulated, Draco sucked Harry's lower lip into his mouth and came.

One more kiss, gentle this time, and then they lay there, chests heaving as they panted for breath. Draco's arms went around Harry. Harry clutched as best he could with one arm trapped, and ducked his head into the crook of Draco's neck and shoulder.

After a few minutes, when his boxers felt more uncomfortable than damp, Harry slid his arm out from under Draco and raised his upper body. Draco moved sideways, lying on his back and smiling up at Harry.

"Your cleaning charm or mine?" Harry asked.

Reaching up and brushing Harry's hair out of his eyes, Draco said, "Yours."

Still tingling from the spell, Harry lowered himself back down, fitting himself in the space between Draco and the cushions, resting his head on Draco's shoulder. As he lay there, drifting but not quite asleep, his jeans still undone, his legs tangled with Draco's, Harry smiled.

*

On a warm Thursday evening, the day before the Hogwarts Express was due to return children to their parents, the pub was packed to the gills. A match between the Woollongong Warriors and the Tchamba Charmers played on the WWN. The darts area was overflowing, with a line-up for every board. Over in the corner near the snug, Brigid had joined a group of witches who were gossiping and giggling over the latest _Witch Weekly_.

"Ardentia Fairclough wants another Sparkling Vampire." Ella landed her tray on the bar. "Marcus says she can keep that vile muck. He'll have a decent pint of Grindle-Dark, thank you very much. And I need a round of Merlin's Pale Ale for the Wade brothers."

"Any comments tonight?" Harry asked, gesturing at her t-shirt with the bottle of sparkleberry schnapps. The previous night's quotation -- something about gutters and homeless minds -- had almost erupted into a free-for-all when an Australian tourist took offense.

Ella pulled out her t-shirt, considered its upside-down-to-her logo of _Legilimens: If you can't say it to my face, don't even bother thinking it_ , and smirked. "Paracelsus Ward looked a bit green, and Calla McIsaac refused to look me in the eyes when she ordered. But nobody's said a word."

"You're falling down on the job, then," Draco said, as he came in through the door from the kitchen. He tossed a black t-shirt over the bar at her. "Try this one. It should be rude enough."

Twisting her body and holding the t-shirt so no one else could see the front, Ella stared at it for a moment then burst out into laughter that verged on cackling.

"Well," Harry finally demanded, as he set the pint glasses on her tray, "let's see."

She pursed her lips and examined the t-shirt again, then shook her head. "No. I don't think so. You'll see it tomorrow with everyone else." Then, eyes sparkling with mirth, she folded the t-shirt, shrank it, and tucked it into the pocket of her jeans. Then, she blew a kiss at Draco. "Thanks, lover boy. My turn next."

"I'll look forward to it." As she sauntered around the bar, dispensing drinks from the tray floating beside her, Draco turned to Harry. "Should I be afraid?"

"I would be. Very afraid." Harry's urge to kiss Draco faltered when a glass was clunked down on the counter.

"Before you disappear with yon lad," Ralph Deakin said, brandishing his glass, "I'll have another."

"Disappear?" Harry frowned, reaching for the bottle of Macallan.

Draco tilted his head in the direction of the kitchen door. Stuart stood in front of it, arms folded across his chest, wearing his usual bartending outfit and a broad grin.

Surprised and confused, Harry pushed the tumbler of whisky back towards Ralph and started to pull a Grindle-Stout for Col Peltenham. "I thought you were painting tonight? The commission of a lifetime, wasn't that what you called it?"

"I lied."

The flat admission startled Harry enough that he overfilled the glass and beer flowed over his hand. "Fuck," he swore, releasing the handle and reaching for a towel.

"They have charms for that, you know," Draco said, a crooked smile lifting one side of his mouth.

"Not for my pint, they don't," Marcus Fairclough growled from his seat at the bar. "Waste of good beer, using those charms."

"Customer's always right," Harry pointed out. Then, he moved aside so Stuart could take his place behind the bar and followed Draco outside.

"My place or yours?" Harry whispered into Draco's ear, after they'd kissed in the back garden. For emphasis, he canted his hips and pressed his erection into Draco's.

"Neither," Draco said, tightening his arms around Harry. "Hold on."

A familiar squeezing sensation yanked Harry out of the garden and released him with a crack into the Apparition point outside Hogwarts.

"What...?" Beyond confused, Harry couldn't complete the thought, never mind his question.

"They'll all be at the Leaving Feast." Draco grabbed Harry's hand and pulled him towards the gates. "And I want you to see the mural I've been working on before it's unveiled to the whole world."

*

In the Entrance Hall, Draco guided Harry over to the wall next to the doors into the Great Hall. The sounds of cutlery against plates, laughter, and hundreds of voices spilled through the doors. Before Harry could ask a question or turn around to see if anything had changed in the school since he'd last been there, Draco had murmured a spell and the curtain wards swept around them.

If asked, Harry would have said that Draco had painted something about the war, with Slytherin and Gryffindor at odds, giants and Dementors rampaging, and Fiendfyre flickering around the edges of the school. He would have guessed wrong.

Hogwarts took up most of the background, bathed in sunshine. Children lay on the grass, walked, ran, played, and even studied. To the right, players in uniforms of green and silver and of red and gold whizzed around the Quidditch pitch on their brooms. Their faces were too small for identification, and yet Harry knew that the Seekers were him and Draco, and the teams were the last ones they'd played together. Blond, black, and red hair gleamed in the light and the players moved.

And on the left, on a hill that didn't exist behind the castle, two figures watched over everything. The dark-haired man loomed over the scene, dressed in sombre, severe black. The other had white hair and a long beard that blew in the breeze and wore bright purple, ever-moving robes.

Eyes prickling, smile making his cheeks ache, Harry wrapped his arms around Draco. "It's amazing," he said. "I could stand here for ages, just watching it."

Draco cupped Harry's face in his hands and brushed a kiss over his lips. "Or we could go and join Scorpius and Al for their last school dinner."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Draco responded, his smile mischievous. "Haven't you always wanted to sit at the Slytherin table?"

They were still laughing, their hands tangling, as they walked side-by-side into the Great Hall.

~fin~


End file.
